Don't Judge Someone Until You Walked a Mile in their Shoes

Right before the second Sex and the City movie ruined it all for me, I had been particularly fond of the series. In fact, one of my favorite episodes in the final season- "A Woman's Right to Shoes", was having regular reruns in my laptop. In that episode, Manhattan's ultimate single girl Carrie, famous for her Imeldific addiction to Jimmy Choos and Manolo Blahniks, was invited to a party celebrating a friend's new baby. Upon the insistence of the hostess, the guests were instructed to leave their shoes before they enter the apartment. Carrie later discovers that someone stole her brand new designer shoes, and though her friend offered to replace them she could only offer $200- telling Carrie now that she has kids, responsibilities and a "real life" she thought it was unreasonable to shell out the actual price of $485 just for shoes.

An indignant Carrie fumes to her friends at being "shoe-shamed". She reasoned, when other people get married or have babies, she was there giving gifts and celebrating their choices- why should she feel ashamed that she chose to be single and live a life where she can afford Manolos? In the past years she had given engagement and wedding presents, attended baby showers, and spent money on gifts during holidays and birthdays of their children. She spent thousands of dollars celebrating her friend's choices, and yet they have not spent a single penny celebrating her own choices. To get her point across, Carrie registers at Manolo Blahnik and announces to her friend that she's "getting married" to herself. In the end, her friend buys the replacement pair and sends Carrie her congratulations.

As Carrie struts on the street with her new shoes she ponders:"The fact is, sometimes it's hard to walk in a single woman's shoes, that's why we need really special ones now and then to make the walk a little more fun."

I couldn't agree more...

Roots

"Our lives are defined by opportunities, even the ones we miss." -The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

"These were the lovely bones that had grown around my absence: the connections- sometimes tenuous, sometimes made at great cost, but often magnificent- that happened when I was gone. And I began to see things in a way that let me hold the world without me in it..." -Alice Sebold, The Lovely Bones

I've had the hardest time placing where it all went wrong. It wasn't until last year, months after my mother passed away, did I learn from my grandmother that when I left for Diliman more than twelve years ago, my parent's marriage troubles started. I thought then, that since my father had finally decided to stay for good after fifteen years of work in Saudi, that our family was finally complete and we'd be happy.

I was a typical young adult who discovered more freedom he could handle, being away from home for the first time. I went home only during the holidays, so I was unaware of the drama unfolding at home. And so the years passed, and I always had the assumption that they would always be there, and I would always have a place at home in Tacloban. When I began working, I still had that attitude, until one day I found myself at the airport seeing my mom off before she left for her job in Louisiana as a nurse. Months later, my father and my two brothers followed.

It was only after I returned to my messy apartment, which I had proudly showed to my father as evidence of my first big paycheck, that I realized I was left alone- literally, and I burst into tears. I still slept on the floor that night, and in the coming nights, and never dared fix the bed where my brothers slept or the sofa littered with Papa's newspapers. The last remaining person dearest to me, my grandmother Nanay, stayed in our house in Tacloban.

Whether consciously or unconsciously, I had begun to sink into depression. I wasn't pill-popping or anything, but each time I heard the phone ring, or see the photos of my family looking very happy in their new house in Monroe, I felt melancholic. Intellectually, I knew it was no one's fault that I was over eighteen when my mother's application for immigration was filed, and only my brothers who were minors went with my parents, but I couldn't help but feel left out. Sometime during the holidays in 2005, I got sick and went to the hospital by myself. It was then I realized, that being independent wasn't so great after all. Whether it was the stress or the disappointment at having been turned down at another promotion, or my loneliness, I decided it was time to go. I was a rootless wandering Jew, and even in our home back in Tacloban someone else was already staying in my room.

Indeed it was the right decision, I got home and got my place back. I used all my effort in restoring and renovating the place because the house was in shambles from the previous floods, and tainted with the patina of years and years of neglect. Nonetheless I was happy to spend time with my grandmother again. I enrolled to get a BSN degree upon the suggestion of Mama who wished for me one day to join them in the US.

But even the perceived better life abroad did little to lessen the fights between my parents, and worse- our relatives were taking sides already. With my parents thousands of miles away, I could only write or call to mediate, but eventually they separated. The most infuriating thing of all was some people in my father's hometown were gossiping about our family, and of course it made everything worse. Add a few meddling relatives, and irreparable damage had been done.

I was third year in Nursing school when my Mama died. We were heartbroken with grief, and with my mother gone it seemed both our relatives from my father's side and mother's side escalated their fighting. This ended with my grandmother, who spent the best years of her life taking care of me and my brothers from birth to our childhood, being taken to my mother's elder sister's home. After all, Nanay is 84 years old already and should not be subjected to stresses.

Meanwhile my father and middle brother decided to live separately because of differences, and our youngest sibling moved on with his life in the US Navy. I guess one could say we are less than ideal as a family, but in spite of this I've never really given up the hope that one day we'd be okay again. As the years rolled by my brother, who is estranged from my father, eventually took the burden of supporting our household in Tacloban, I managed the household, while our youngest met a Filipina who also enlisted in the Navy and had gotten engaged.

As I presently review for the Nursing Board Exams, I faced a crossroad which challenged my intellect, will, and my personal beliefs and values. I am to choose between two alternatives- medical school and work. But of course the choices are not that simple, because this time the stakes are high, convoluted with clauses and conditions, and far-reaching consequences.

When my partner had discussed the idea, I never really thought about it too deeply until I graduated from Nursing school. What only came to mind was the lovely white coat I imagined I'd be wearing on rounds, but of course, foolish me never realized the full impact until recently. My friends who went to med school, who were given adequate financial and moral support by their families, all agree that it consumed their lives. Meaning there is no room for indecision, because being a doctor is a life-long quest and commitment. And when it finally hit me- someone who was raised in an environment where graduate education wasn't given much regard, who would undertake this journey with no financial support from family, who would be too old to be making any more mistakes at this point- I was disconcerted.

Don't get me wrong, I never had any regrets with my previous life choices, mistakes included. But truth of the matter is, med school never entered my mind until maybe about two or three years ago. The friends I've mentioned had either a mother or father who were doctors or lawyers, and it was but a natural step for them to follow suit. And of course back then pursuing an MD was not really in the plans of my parents because we simply could not afford it.

Here's the catch: in about eight years time my brother's petition might be granted and I'll finally get a US Visa. If I go to med school, I can't just throw in the towel and say I'd take any job in the US- all those years of study and work, and all the money invested in my education would be put to waste. Besides, med school would mean another four years of me being dependent and thus will not be generating income. As it is my brother is struggling sending himself through school, paying his bills, and supporting our household.

This leaves me to consider option two- work here in Tacloban and get a Master's degree. I would be able to help ease the burden on my brother, be independent and not be a burden to anyone and pay for my Master's degree myself. In eight year's time I can take the US opportunity with no guilt.

My friends were surprised when I contacted several of them to discuss my dilemma. "I thought you already decided?" They asked.

It turns out the decision is harder than I thought it would ever be. There is no right or wrong because both have its own pros and cons. One is about moving on and making something out of my life as a doctor, the other is fulfilling the dream my parents had for our family that one day I'd join them in the US like I was supposed to. If I were to leave home for four years of study in Iloilo or some other place where I'd be on this journey in med school, one of my greatest fears is that I may be "phased out" from our home like what happened to Nanay. I know it's a ridiculous notion, but believe me you have to know our family to change the definition of what ridiculous means. When my mom died, one of the things I quietly promised her was that as the eldest, I'd do everything in my power to keep our family together. With my father and brothers in the US, Nanay in Palo, and me- the last remaining family member living in the house we grew up in.

I suppose it is a gamble either way. When I opened the discussion with my partner, it went from a heated debate, to angry tears, and finally, silence. I'm terrified of making another mistake, and what if I make a decision and later become unhappy? Are those doors once closed, forever locked? My partner was right, I have not moved on- and it's only because I'm still hoping one day our family relationship would somehow return to the way it was before it crumbled. It isn't just a question of money, it isn't just a question of my future alone- what I decide will also affect the fate of our family relationship.

At the end of our discussion, my partner and I could only agree on one thing: more time to think.

Image source

Superwoman (Inday's Theme)

Karyn White - Superwoman (7'' Version)

Found at: - FilesTube

In Hongkong they say, Filipina means maid. In London, Pinoys come in hordes as caregivers. Here in our country, even lower middleclass families in small towns have household help- so one can’t help but wonder, is the financial state of our people dire enough for a chunk of our population to live their lives in humble servitude?

I grew up in a household that was never without help, since both parents were working abroad and our grandmother could not possibly manage domestic affairs by herself. Suffice to say, we’d seen all types: the industrious, the lazy, the irate, the docile, the proud, the meek, the dedicated, and the indifferent. We’ve had young girls, older women, a young man, a tomboy, and even a transverstite. They were either distant relatives or a family friend, always from a far-flung place, all with the same affliction: poverty.

The youngest we had was Umbang, who came to our household when she was fourteen and painfully shy. She had not had the chance to finish Grade Three, and her story was the stuff of telenovelas. She was probably one of the longest who stayed in our household, until she took an offer to work in Manila- as a maid, of course.

The one that followed her was a Basey party girl who left duties to attend a series of fiestas in her hometown. She lasted exactly two weeks. Now we have a lady in her late thirties who takes my little nephew to preschool, and a sixteen year old boy whom my cousin is sending to school- he is in Sixth Grade at the local elementary school.

Imagine what it would be like, to have parents who either passed away or unable to support you, leaving you no choice but to find work. But despite these circumstances, I do admire some of our help who stayed with us for some time- Rhaulyn Mae was a jolly person who never let her financial status (or the fact that he was a she) dampen her spirits. One of them had strong faith and turned to religion to get him through hard times without turning bitter. Life never was easy, but these people proved its all in the attitude.

I do hope the young ones finish their education, because that’s the only way, I believe, to gain independence and open doors to bigger opportunities. But a life of servitude is not something to be ashamed of- it is a dignified job of helping people even in the simplest of domestic tasks. If anything, these hardworking people becomes part of our ever-extending Filipino family.